Broken
by jojospn
Summary: SPOILERS for season ten, up to 10x3, "Soul Survivor". Dean's POV. While Sam grieves Dean's transformation to demon, his brother's soul is still very much present. And what he witnesses leaves him broken. Rated T for language.


**DISCLAIMER: I don't own **_**Supernatural, **_** or its characters. That, sadly, belongs to Eric Kripke and co. All rights reserved. SPOILERS for the first episodes of season ten, especially "Soul Survivor". Based on the part in the trailer when Sam is looking at a photo of him and Dean. AU in the fact that Dean's spirit, the REAL Dean, is around, and witnessing all that his new demon self is doing, and his brother's reaction, grief. Since he technically isn't dead, there are no telltale sings of spirit activity in the bunker. I know this isn't likely, but hey, my fic, so what the hell. Lol. Anyway, enjoy!**

**Broken**

Broken.

I know what it's like. To be shattered inside, the millions of tiny pieces piercing your soul until you can no longer feel pain, only numbness. To then wish that you could feel that intensity, because that is better than that horrible nothingness that envelops you like a shroud. I had felt that only a few times in my life: when I had watched as my brother disappeared into the pit in Stull Cemetery; those first months after Dad had died; and when I had done the very thing Sam is now, standing before the body of my brother, feeling an emptiness I had never truly experienced before in my life. God, I knew all too well the feeling of standing there, waiting, _praying,_ for the miracle, for my brother to just open his eyes... to live. But I have never seen it from the other side of the fence. To see the intense grief in Sam's eyes as he struggles to control his emotions.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so, so sorry..." Sam's voice chokes up, and I wish I could just hold him, like I did when he was little, when our problems were easily solved with cartoons, snuggles, story time with Sam's favourite books. But I can't. I've only been dead a few hours, and any physical contact is impossible. So I watch, heart aching, listening to my little brother as he speaks, heart and soul pouring out like he has never done before. I watch as Sam begs for forgiveness, for not arriving in time to save me, for all the times he has felt he'd let me down (_never, Sammy. You have NEVER let me down_). For the words he had said to me, for saying he would never try to bring me back. I won't lie to you, tell you some candy coated bullshit about how I hadn't been bothered by Sam's words. You saw yourself how I'd acted like the typical tough guy I'd been raised to be. But nothing hurts worse than the guilt I can see on my brother's face, contorted in agonizing pain. I see every facial expression, tell tale signs of emotional breakdown Sam had developed as a child and had continued into adulthood: the slight tremble of the lip he bites slightly, as if the pressure would somehow contain the onslaught of grief that threatens to overpower him; the slow trail of tears leaking from his eyes. He stands there for a while, my big little brother, staring at my corpse as if somehow that would bring me back from the dead. Fuck, we've defied the natural order enough times that somehow the concept doesn't seem like much of a stretch. After a while the tears subside, and the look of grief is one replaced by a sense of calm, like that of one on a mission. I know that look all too well. I've had that same expression on my own face: after Cold Oak, Stull, even that crappy motel room when those hunters had gunned Sammy down right before me.

"Jesus, Sammy," I mutter, because I know that my brother is probably about to do something stupid. Like crossroads level of stupid. And yeah, I know I'd be a major fucking hypocrite for bitching. Gadreel violating my brother's mind and soul is case in point. But at the same time I can't hold back the feeling of relief. _Hearing_ my brother say he'd lied about not trying anything to bring me back from whatever fate came my way is one thing; to actually _see_ him like this, to see the look of determination, and _anger_ is something I had truly thought I'd never know again.

I have my brother back. He doesn't know, but I have my Sammy back.

XXX

Broken.

It`s how I feel when I see my eyes, those of the body Sam had so carefully tended to in the hours following my death, snap open, inky black. To see the look of almost childlike glee on Crowley`s face as I slowly rise from my bed, still clutching the Blade like a child`s security blanket. I have become something I had prayed to the God I still didn't quite believe in I would never be. I watch as I take in my new form, relishing it like one would a fine wine, all the while listening to Crowley go on about howling at the moon. I watch as I scrawl that short note to Sam ( ``Sammy, let me go``, somehow taking comfort in the fact that I – _it_ – had added the MY at the end) and slip away undetected. Part of me wants to follow, to see what the new and improved Dean Winchester is truly capable of with his newfound demonic side. But I can`t leave Sammy. As much as it`s gonna hurt to see his reaction, I need to hope that somehow he can sense me, can take small comfort in my presence. And as expected, when my brother walks into that empty room, that look of bewilderment, horror, and intense grief is enough to, well, kill me.

``Dean,`` Sam chokes back a sob, and I feel my heart ache for the man standing before me. Irrationally, my brother scours the bunker: the closet, garage, shooting range, yelling my name until his throat is raw and his voice barely above a whisper. I can only watch, a silent tear streaking from my eyes, praying that somehow my presence would be detected, that my pain in the ass little brother's hunting instincts would just kick in. ``Damn it, Sammy, you're a hunter. It must be freaking cold in here. Lights flickering and all that shit. I'm a freaking _ghost_ and you can't tell I'm here?`` I don't realize that technically I'm not a ghost anymore. No more flickering lights, cold spots, all that jazz. But even if there were signs, there's no way my kid brother is thinking straight at the moment. All Sam knows is that not twenty minutes ago, I had been lying just over there, on that memory foam mattress I've been obsessing over, and now, I'm gone.

XXX

Broken.

It's how Sam is when he looks through the photographs.

There aren't many of them, the pictures tucked behind a few sheets of notes I'd taken from, well, _before._ One is of the two of us in front of the Impala holding fishing poles and cans of worms for bait. I remember that day clearly; Bobby had surprised us with an afternoon at his favourite spot, one he'd spent many a summer afternoon as a boy. Don't think we caught anything. Didn't care. We just enjoyed being normal for once. Think I'm about nine and Sam five. Sam smiles sadly at the faded image. Knowing my brother, he's probably thinking about our lost childhood, how he wishes I'd had the chance to just act like a kid and all that. There are a few others, one of us and Bobby posing beside the Impala, and the one of me and Mom, taken the summer before the fire. There's a candid shot of the two of us laughing, taken shortly after I'd picked Sammy up from Stanford. This one is definitely a favorite of mine, and I choke up at the memory. But the one that gets Sam is one taken only a year or so before the whole Leviathan crap. The two of us at a bar, drinking beer and smiling for the camera.

"Sammy, man," I start, but my words naturally fall on deaf ears. Sam stares at the picture for a minute, slips them safely back where they belong, and leaves. "I'm not letting you down this time, Dean," he mutters, as if somehow acknowledging that I _am _there... well, sort of. And I gotta admit, I'm kind of glad. I know it's over and done with, and I really get why he did it, but it still hurts sometimes to think that while I was in Purgatory Sam had done nothing to look for me. And so I smile to myself as I watch him leave.

_I know you are, Sammy._

XXX

Broken.

It's how I feel now that I'm _me,_ Dean Winchester, sitting on my awesome memory foam and staring at the walls. I remember every word I said to Sam as a demon, every hurtful thing I could possibly come up with.

_My mother is dead because of you._

The look of horror on Sam's face, no matter how hard he tried to hold back... the memory is agonizing, like a stab wound from a rusty knife. But as awful as those words were, nothing bothers me more than the memory of me trying to kill him. I feel a single tear slide down one cheek. Ohmigod, I tried to kill my brother. "God, Sammy," I moan, burying my face in my hands. "I'm so sorry." But this is somethng I'm sure a simple "I'm sorry, Sam" is not going to fix. Sure, Cas seems to think that he'll get over it, that Sam gets that I was a demon and not really liable. But nothing changes the fact that I chased my brother through the bunker with a fucking hammer. Nothing will wipe that clean.

There's a knock on my door, and a soft voice can be heard from the other end. "Hey, Dean? You must be starving, man." I shouldn't be. I'm too disgusted at myself. But I can definitely smell a greasy burger and my stomach rumbles in spite of myself. "Yeah, I am," I admit. The door opens and Sam walks in the room, almost cautiously, a bag of take out and a pastry box in tow. "Didn't forget the pie," he smiles faintly.

"Thanks, dude." Sam watches as I pull out a thick bacon cheeseburger, extra onions... just the way I like it. "Awww, baby," I mutter in spite of myself, and Sam chuckles. "Yeah, figured you'd like that."

"Dude, this is freakin' awesome." The words come out garbled as I chew, and Sam rolls his eyes. For a moment it's like it was before. But the awkward silence hovers as my brother watches me for a bit, then slowly backs away. "Yeah, I guess I should let you get back to that."

"No. Sit your ass down."

Sam is as surprised as I am at my stern tone, and the inner little brother in him, the one who'd listened to his big brother's every order, comes out. I know my brother. He still believes some of the shit demon me spewed at him earlier. I can guaran-fucking-tee.

"Look, Sammy, I'm..."

"Don't. You don't have to apologize. For Christssakes you were a demon. If anything I should be the one apologizing to you."

"To _me? _Last I checked it was me who went all Jack Torrens there." _Damn it, Sammy. This isn't on you._

"If I'd just... if I'd..."

And I suddenly get it. Sam thinks this is his fault I became a demon. Jesus. And as if on cue, Sammy rambles on about how if he'd only kept his damn mouth shut, had gotten over the whole Gadreel thing, I wouldn't have felt tempted to take on the Mark. "I didn't mean it," he mutters. "I'd never let you just fucking die, Dean."

"Yeah, looks like you didn't, huh?" I smile, making some room along the side of my bed. "This pie is huge, man. Think you might wanna share?"

And Sam smiles and settles on the bed next to me. Sure, it may be a while before things are back to the way they were, but for now, neither of us is completely broken.


End file.
